


here comes a candle to light you to bed

by astrild



Series: et lux in tenebris lucet [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Betaed, Cover Art, Crazy!Sam, Dark, Doubting Reality, Frottage, Hallucinations, Insanity, Kissing, M/M, Mind Games, Podfic Welcome, Possessive Behavior, Profanity, Psychological Torture, Season/Series 07, Seduction, Temptation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-28
Updated: 2011-11-28
Packaged: 2017-10-26 15:04:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/284648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrild/pseuds/astrild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reality is a fluid, messy thing. Sam doesn't know what to believe anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	here comes a candle to light you to bed

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to [](http://novakev.livejournal.com/profile)[**novakev**](http://novakev.livejournal.com/) for the quick beta and encouragement and to [](http://cryysis.livejournal.com/profile)[**cryysis**](http://cryysis.livejournal.com/) for asking all the right questions.

Lucifer’s mouth tastes like sin, tastes like all the things Sam shouldn’t want but can’t resist. He’s so fucked up. He never used to be this fucked up.

“You’re not even real,” Sam says.

Lucifer merely chuckles softly in reply and kisses him again, mockingly gentle and so terribly sweet. Calloused hands trail up and down exposed skin—and that had been a miscalculation. He should have known better than to go to bed in just his boxers, never mind that it’s a sweltering August night and (because it’s his life and he’s just that lucky) the air conditioner isn’t working. Of course Lucifer would see it as an invitation.

Sam’s not a fool; he knows none of this is real. This is just another hallucination, a product of his damaged mind. There is no body curled up beside his on the narrow motel bed; there are no hands roaming his body as if they are welcome; there is no tongue sliding filthy-slick against his own. If he squeezes his eyes shut, if he concentrates, if he digs a thumb ruthlessly into the slowly fading scar on his palm—then he’ll wake up. He’ll remember what’s real and what’s not. He’ll remember that he’s well beyond Lucifer’s reach.

Lucifer is in the Cage. Sam is not. This. Is. Not. Real.

Right?

Reality is such a fluid, messy thing these days.

As if sensing Sam’s doubts, Lucifer shifts closer, one thigh angling to press against Sam’s aching groin in a calculated tease. Bastard. That’s not playing fair.

Sam moans helplessly into the kiss, needy and shameless.

Lucifer makes a pleased noise deep in his throat and draws back to survey his handiwork. That smirk of amusement is all too familiar. “Not real? You’re sounding less and less sure of that each day. Are you having doubts? Do I feel real to you?” The pressure against Sam’s groin intensifies. It’s good. God, it’s so good, but it’s not enough, not nearly enough. He needs more, please, please, please— “I asked you a question, Sammy.”

“Don’t,” Sam hisses through clenched teeth, “call me Sammy,” and, fox-quick, he grabs Lucifer by the hips, rolling them both so that Lucifer is flat on his back, splayed out like a wanton whore and _still fucking smirking_. Sam pins Lucifer’s wrists above his head with one strong hand, straddles his hips, and contemplates ripping that damn button-down right off Lucifer’s shoulders with his free hand. And the ratty old t-shirt really needs to go too. He hates that button-down and he hates that t-shirt and—more than anything—he hates that smirk; he wants them gone, wants Lucifer stripped bare beneath him, wants him to know how it feels to be naked and vulnerable and utterly at another’s mercy.

“I do so love it when you take control,” Lucifer says.

“Fuck you.”

“That’s the idea,” Lucifer purrs, stretching languidly beneath Sam as if there’s no place he would rather be. “Come on, what are you waiting for? You’ve got me right where you want me. Why don’t you show me who’s boss? I’m all yours.”

No. He should say no. He should stop this now. But Sam is just a man.

And fuck if the devil doesn’t know how to press all his buttons.

With a muttered curse, Sam releases Lucifer’s hands and strips him of both shirts with military precision. He’s not at all gentle as he does it, but Lucifer doesn’t protest—just laughs quietly, like Sam is a well-loved pet that has just done something adorable. He won’t be laughing in a minute. Sam jerks Lucifer’s jeans and boxers down his thighs just enough to provide easy access to hard cock, shucks his own boxers completely, and goes to town.

As Sam covers the willing body beneath him with his own, enjoying the way Lucifer’s breath hitches under the force of Sam’s weight bearing down on him, it occurs to him that he could easily flip Lucifer onto his knees and just sink into him. He could release all his pent up anger and aggression in the most animalistic way possible. He could make this man bleed, make him scream with something other than pleasure. Lucifer wouldn’t stop him; he might even enjoy it. Certainly he would deserve it, after everything he’s done to Sam.

The very idea makes him ill, makes him falter. He can’t. He just can’t.

“I’m not a monster,” Sam whispers, more to himself than to the man under him.

“Of course you’re not.” Lucifer’s eyes glint knowingly, his hands sliding up Sam’s arms to clutch at his shoulders. With a deliberate thrust of his hips, Lucifer brings their cocks together. Sam’s arousal returns. Okay, he thinks. Okay.

Slowly, experimentally, Sam grinds against the body under him.

And, yes: this he can do. It’s good. It’s familiar in a way that it shouldn’t be, familiar like Lucifer’s kisses and his smirks and his lies.

“Yes, that’s it,” Lucifer says. “That’s it, Sammy. Take what you want.” Blunt fingernails dig painfully into Sam’s shoulders as Lucifer urges him on, words of encouragement fading into a litany of curses and moans as they rut against one another, lucidity burning away in the heat of desire.

For a moment—as Sam’s control spirals over the edge—he forgets that his partner is not a lover (isn’t someone he should ever love) and it’s _perfect_. It’s a little like flying and a lot like falling and he’s not afraid, because he’s not alone. He’s safe and protected and wanted and—

And then he’s coming down from his high, gasping for breath and staring into inhuman eyes.

“I miss you,” Lucifer says. “Do you miss me?”

It’s like a splash of ice-water to his senses. Nausea takes hold and Sam rolls off Lucifer with a choked sob, throwing one arm over his face and squeezing his eyes shut tight.

A hand falls to rest over Sam’s heart, possessive.

“Do I feel real to you, Sammy?” Lucifer asks again.

Shivering and raw, Sam shakes his head in desperate denial, but when he opens his mouth, what comes out is, “Yes.”

When he opens his eyes again, Sam is alone.

*

Sam is digging through his bag in search of fresh clothes, a towel wrapped precariously around his waist, when Dean finally stirs from his hung-over stupor enough to formulate complete sentences—though coherency still seems to elude him. The words that come out of his mouth don’t make any sense at all.

“Sam, you dog,” Dean says. “Why didn’t you just _tell_ me you’d found a girl last night? If you’d wanted the motel room to yourself for a while, you only had to say so. There was no need to feed me that bullshit about being tired and wanting to crash early.”

Baffled, Sam turns to meet Dean’s leering gaze.

“What are you talking about? There was no girl. I _did_ crash early.”

“Sure,” Dean says, grin widening. “Then I suppose you gave yourself those marks on the back of your shoulders? I wasn’t born yesterday, dude.”

“Neither was I, _dude_ ,” Sam says, rolling his eyes. Dean’s messing with him, he has to be, but he’ll play along. Gamely, he approaches the mirror, positioning himself for a better look at these alleged marks. Laughter dies in his throat, his blood running cold at what he sees.

On the back of each shoulder are five perfect crescents gouged so deeply into his skin that they’ve scabbed over. There is only one person who could have left them there.

“Sam? Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Sam lies. “I’m fine.”


End file.
